


of desire but fresh and new

by broomclosetkink



Series: Tapestries of Elvhenan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Canon What Canon, Drama, F/M, Humor, Smut, Solavellan, UST, solavellan romance au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/broomclosetkink/pseuds/broomclosetkink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clearing his throat, Solas puts on his best mild mannered apostate face. “My expertise lies in the Fade and not... this. And I don't like the idea of you presuming to command me to – what? Engage in intercourse with our Inquisitor?”</p><p>In which Dorian and Ellana discuss (her misconceptions about) sex, Solas overhears everything, and a situation arises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	of desire but fresh and new

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings: Suggestions and mentions of **noncon** and **dubcon**. Nothing graphic, but please, if this could trigger you, just skip the whole fic and go take a bubble bath or read a book that makes you happy. :) ILU be good to yourself. Also Dorian being a lil shit, so. 
> 
> I've got no excuse for this, none at all. It was going to be a standalone onehot. MAYBE 5,000 words. That changed. Reviews and concrit is always welcome! I edited for myself and I'm shit at it, so sorry about any random mistakes floating around.

He doesn't intentionally eavesdrop on their conversation, but they are not quiet and the smallest of sounds echoes through the high rotunda. In truth, it factored into Solas' choosing of this room to claim as his own; there were far less opportunities to do something... _impulsive_ in a space half-open for three floors, with multiple entrances and exits and fantastic acoustics. Given the sway of his thoughts when it comes to the Inquisitor (soft, sweet, shy Ellana; Ellana that blushes when he looks too long in her direction; Ellana that has a crooked little smile and a nervous laugh that work together to inspire ideas that would be positively ruinous if enacted), solitude did not seem a wise choice.

 

But – and this a rather important addendum to made – _but_ he had not known that a charming, glib Tevinter mage would become her dearest friend... or that said Tevine would claim a spot on the second floor rotunda library. She's often overhead, her voice if not always her exact words bouncing off the curved walls to grace his ears. It's comforting, in a way; after so many weeks and months spent together on the road, traveling from one crisis to the next, it sets Solas at ease to have her near. She's the brightest thing he's found in this nightmare of a world, and he craves that light in the way only a creature so steeped in darkness can.

 

“So there we were – I myself as naked as the day I came screaming into this world, Felix wearing the stolen uniform and armor of a Templar, boots too big and breastplate too small – writhing about in midair, captured in a very effective ward burst. Fifteen Templars are gawping at us, and Felix (who was _very drunk_ by this point, I should remind you) asks, 'Excuse us, but have you seen a particularly rabid herd of nugs around here?' Alexius spent a _disgusting_ amount of gold covering that scandal up!” Dorian's story ends with a loud bark of laughter and the quiet slosh of alcohol against the sides of a bottle.

 

Ellana is laughing so hard it sounds as though she's beginning to sob.

 

“You – _you_ –” Hiccuping, she loses her breath entirely and collapses back into gurgles of laughter. Solas can picture her, red faced, hands waving through the air as though fighting off her mirth. He likes seeing her like that, wishes he was the one that (probably) had tears of amusement leaking from the corners of her eyes. But that's a very silly wish, pointless beyond measure, and by the Void he's grateful Mythal isn't here to see him going to pieces over a mayfly mortal that snorts when she _really_ gets to laughing. ( _To be fair,_ he argues with the memory of his oldest friend, _it's adorable._ To which the shade lurking in his mind replies, _Dread Wolf, you've gone soft – adorable! Ha!_ )

 

The sound of Ellana wheezing breaks through his (perfectly ridiculous) thoughts, though it seems she finally takes in a good lungful of air. She uses it to announces, “Dorian, you're an _idiot!_ ”

 

“Ah, the follies of youth; those years make idiots of us all.” A pause, short and considering. “Well, except for perhaps _you._ My goodness, are you still sober enough to have your clothes on? _Drink,_ girl – we're the only one's in here tonight. It's us, those _fucking_ ravens, and a certain hedge mage that is probably now ignoring us in favor walking the Fade.” Solas can image the wiggling fingers that accompany the words 'walking in the Fade.' He hopes the Tevine can _feel_ him rolling his eyes.

 

“At least I haven't got a barracks of Templars to break into if I _do_ get drunk.” If, she says, as though she hasn't spent the past hour drinking brandy from the bottle and getting progressively louder and more prone to giggling as she goes. _If._

 

“Oh no, but there _is_ a certain Templar whose office I wouldn't mind cracking into.” Solas can actually hear Dorian leering. “And look at that blush!”

 

Ellana sputters. Solas very actively doesn't care, because he's an ancient demi-god that isn't jealous of lyrium addled human men, thank you. “ _What?_ I-I don't –”

 

“You aren't _what?_ Aren't _fascinated_ by all those rippling muscles and that lovely little scar on his mouth? _Liar._ You nearly gave yourself whiplash when we saw him training in the courtyard.”

 

“I – no – he's my _Commander_ –”

 

Solas winces, one hand leaving the book he's (not even pretending to be) reading to press against his forehead. Dorian positively _cackles._ “Oh, do tell me more!”

 

“ _It's not like that!_ ” She sounds scandalized. “I don't have _feelings_ for Cullen!”

 

“Feelings – who said anything about feelings? Well, I suppose there _are_ feelings involved, and some hopeful feeling _of_ , but emotions? Bah! No, what I'm talking about is pure, raw, animal sex. In the courtyard. With a sweaty Cullen. Hopefully a slightly angry Cullen that likes to bite and pull my hair.”

 

A pause. A loud breath. Ellana squealing in outrage. “Dread Wolf take you!” she snaps, and the sound of a stack of books crashing down echoes off the walls. Rubbing his suddenly aching head, Solas _longs_ for a way to convince his (since when?) da'len to stop cursing everything in his name. It's... distracting.

 

Dorian chortles. “Your eyes are about to pop right out of that pretty little head!”

 

“I'm on your lap, you disgusting –” There are several inarticulate sounds of rage, and the thump of flesh hitting flesh.

 

“Ah, now, Ellie, you _know_ it's not for you.”

 

“I still don't – that's not – _Dorian!_ Stop it!”

 

“Are you _ordering_ my erection to stop?”

 

Solas is not laughing. At _all._ Because this is childish and ridiculous and that noise was a cough, yes, that is _all._

 

“Yes! Make it quit!”

 

“It's not a _dog._ I don't take it out for walks and make it do tricks. Well, actually, I sort of do make it do tricks, but –”

 

“Let me go!”

 

“What a positively adorable little face you're making – and the blush! Oh – oh Maker have mercy, blessed Andraste guide me – _Ellana,_ tell me true and honest, you nasty little heathen, is mine the first cock to ever assault you?” Dorian sounds as though he may implode from badly suppressed laughter. “My precious little unicorn! You're a _virgin!_ ”

 

“That's none of your –”

 

“I _must_ write home immediately! _Dear Mother and Father, I've perverted a nice young virgin girl, she blushed for days and days._ ” He chortles, and here are the sounds of a scuffle.

 

“Dorian, you nasty shem, I'm – you – _stop it!_ ”

 

“I didn't think Bull was right, but it looks I owe him a rather disgusting amount of gold. Blast! Well – not if we – hmm, well, there's a very reputable brothel in Val Royeaux, I'm sure they would have a nice chap to take care of this...”

 

Cupping a hand over his eyes and taking several deep, slow breaths, Solas searches for the calm stillness he holds inside. It remains stubbornly out of reach, pushed too far away by the hot buzzing of his mind. (Soft, sweet, shy Ellana; Ellana and her blushes and finding out how far they go; Ellana hot with shock as he shows her how soft and wet she can be...)

 

“I don't want a prostitute!” she snaps, clearly outraged at the very thought. “And believe me, I'm not a virgin, much as I wish I was!”

 

Silence. Long, hot, heavy silence. Solas' jaw aches with the restraint it takes to keep from demanding clarification. They're moving around up there, and someone is taking a drink from the bottle. She's breathing hard and loud, like a winded animal.

 

“Ellie, love...” Dorian's tone is hesitant. “I didn't mean – you weren't – did someone... hurt you?” Solas grinds his teeth together in response, hands balling into fists. His skin feels too small, and he worries he's going to burst through into fur and fangs out of sheer rage.

 

“Hurt...? What?” She's baffled, confused, doesn't understand – he has brought down empires and gods and false gods, by the Void, he will tear this fucking world to _shreds_ if some fool hurt (his) this girl.

 

“Did someone hurt you... with... sex?”

 

“Well yes,” she answers, and he can almost see her blinking in confusion. “But that's normal.”

 

“Normal?” Dorian sounds as though he's being strangled.

 

She clarifies, “It's normal for women. You wouldn't know, it's okay. But that's how it goes for us.” She's so calm, now, so very matter of fact.

 

“Why don't you enlightenmentme?”

 

“I don't – I mean – there's not much to say, is there?” Audibly flustered, Ellana begins to babble nervously. “It's just, you know, it's different for women than it is for men. Good for them, for you, which is fine, but it's not for us.... So I don't _want_ a prostitute, thank you for the offer though.”

 

“Darling girl, you're talking _nonsense._ ”

 

“No I'm not?” she questions, and Solas can hear the uncertainty together. “Didn't – didn't anyone tell you?”

 

“Tell me _what?_ ”

 

“That it hurts women? I – I thought maybe that was part of why you preferred men, because then you can both enjoy it.”

 

“Who the – who _told_ you this?”

 

“Mamae?” she answers slowly. “And Deshanna, our Keeper. And Tav'la.”

 

Solas begins a deep breathing exercise, jaw and fists spasming as he struggles for control.

 

“What the _fuck_ kind of sex are your people having!?” Dorian demands, sounding morally outraged by the injustice of what he's hearing.

 

“I... I'm pretty sure there's just the one?”

 

“Why would anyone – how does that – what _happened?_ ”

 

“What do you mean what – I don't understand what you're asking me, Dorian. Dorian? Please stop drinking and breathe, you're turning purple.”

 

“What _happened,_ Ellie? What _happened_ that made you agree with those _morons_ that sex is painful for women?”

 

“Um... I had sex? I _really_ don't understand why you're upset. It's just how it is.”

 

“We're going to have a really long conversation about this supposed 'sex' you've had, involving names and locations so I can commit at least one _brutal_ murder, but right now, Ellana, you're going to answer me a question.”

 

“Oh, um... okay?”

 

“Have you ever had an orgasm?”

 

She _laughs._ “No, you idiot! Women _can't!_ Ow – ow, Dorian, what are you doing!? Put me down!”

 

He sounds like a druffalo, charging the short space between his reading nook and then down the staircase. Solas is scowling, too furious to pretend he hadn't heard everything, when Dorian appears. Ellana is slung over his shoulder, slender legs and arms flailing. The Tevine easily lifts her from his shoulder, barely allowing her a second on her feet before whirling her around to face Solas.

 

“Ha'haren!” Her expression is positively scandalized, eyes gone wide and horrified.

 

“You heard everything?” Dorian demands, mustache quivering angrily. “Of course you did, how could you not?”

 

“ _What?_ ” Ellana squirms in the other mage's grasp, seeking escape. “You – you _knew_ ha'haren was down here?”

 

“Where else would he _be,_ Ellie?”

 

“I wasn't intentionally eavesdropping,” Solas feels the need to explain. His throat is so tight it's difficult to speak. “But you were... quite loud.”

 

“I thought it was empty. Even – even Leliana's gone –”

 

“ _Not the point!_ ” Holding onto her shoulders, Dorian gives Ellana a soft shake. “ _You're_ her hairy-hen –”

 

“Ha'haren,” she automatically corrects.

 

“And you're always going on about Elvhen this, that, the other; well here's the real injustice, the fucking Inquisitor was taught that women can't have _orgasms._ Who even – how does –” Dorian sputters, intoxicated and outraged and turning several shades of red. “I'm not qualified to fix this, you _must_ help us! Help her! This is _dire!_ ”

 

For a moment, Solas can hear little over the hard rush of blood in his ears. Before fantasies can usurp common sense and all decency, reality draws a line in the sand. Ellana is flaming scarlet, jaw working soundlessly as she stares between he and Dorian; she looks as though she would very much for the anchor to explode and disintegrate her.

 

Clearing his throat, he puts on his best mild mannered apostate face. “My expertise lies in the Fade and not... this. And I don't like the idea of you presuming to command me to – what? Engage in intercourse with our Inquisitor?”

 

“Oh, for fuck's sake, you slaver like a dog when you stare at her bottom for too long!” Dorian snaps, so irritated that fire flickers on his fingertips. “And I _wasn't_ demanding you 'engage in intercourse' – you pretentious _arse_ – I'm asking you to explain – I don't know how women work!”

 

“I hardly think I'm the best person to expand on this particular subject.” _Liar,_ an insidious voice insists, all want and need and the fierce desire to know how Ellana would sound if he –

 

“I don't want anyone to explain anything,” she flatly insists, folding her arms under her breasts and scowling. She's got the look of angry kitten about her, and Solas goes back to thinking _adorable_ because he's pathetic and she's beautiful. “I know all I need to know.”

 

“But women _can_ have pleasure! Right, Solas?”

 

Of all the conversations he does _not_ need to be having... “They can,” he agrees, because there is no world in which the atrocity of Ellana believing herself incapable of physical pleasure should be allowed to stand.

 

His soft conformation has confusion skittering across her features, leafs blown in a strong wind. Two words from his mouth and she doubts, has questions, needs answers. And it's _him_ she's looking at, because this is the position he's created for himself, ha'haren to her da'len, the bringer of wise council when she doesn't know where to turn. And Void take him but it makes his heart skip paces, makes his breath catch, because he's got a vivid imagination and he can _hear_ her asking (half-scared and shy and hopeful, all at once), “Ha'haren, would you show me...?”

 

He wouldn't say no.

 

“I don't think I believe you.”

 

“Why would we lie about this, Ellie?”

 

“Because – because Tav'la said sometimes women lie about it, so – maybe that's what –”

 

Dorian picks her up again, using just one arm to sling her back over his shoulder. “That's it,” he grimly announces, “we're going to go talk to The Iron Bull.”

 

“What?” Ellana squeaks.

 

“What?” Solas demands.

 

“And Sera. Sera's a lesbian, she _loves_ vaginas. Has to know how they work, doesn't she? Perfect plan.”

 

“Ha'haren!” She's stretching out her hands, clearly beginning to panic. “Solas, _help!_ ”

 

The most pathetic part of this is that he's Fade stepping before consciously planning to do so. A second twist of the Fade has both he and Ellana on the opposite side of the rotunda. She's clinging to him, one hand fisted into the front of his tunic and the second gripping the back of his belt. And he? He's got her against his side, tight, up on her toes; no amount of mental coaching has him releasing her.

 

“ _Stop this_.” His voice is a harsh crack, and the mildness he strives for in his 'middle' age is cracking. “ _If_ the Inquisitor has questions, she's quite old enough to seek answers on her own.”

 

“Well _someone_ needs to do _something_ about this.” Dorian pauses, eyebrows curling to wicked heights as a smirk pulls his mouth. “Oh, is that your game? Didn't take you for the type, elf, but good on _you._ ”

 

“Not everything is a game, Tevine.” But she's blushing, hard, and peeking at him from under her eyelashes. He can feel the lift of her ribs when she takes in a sharp inhale, the press of one soft breast against his side; her hand tightens in the fabric over his chest. The little hairs on the back of his neck and knuckles stand on end. He wants ( _how_ he wants, it is a desperate need that grows with each passing day spent adventuring at her side, with each conversation in which she seeks out his knowledge like a desert starved for rain). She is clearly interested, and Void take him but his quick mind is tripping over it's self in an effort to provide ideas. ( _I could show you, da'len,_ he could say, two fingers under her chin. _Only if you want. Do you, Ellana? Do you_ _ **want**_ _?_ )

 

Space – he needs space, now, or he will do something _beyond_ foolish. Taking her hand, Solas gently pushes a thumb under her fingers, releasing her grip on him. Simple, safe, now let her go – but he is weak and old and terrible, so he presses two fingertips to the thin skin at her wrist. Her pulse is a mad race, a hard throb that he feels behind his own ribs and behind his eyes. It's a brief, quick touch, but she's looking at him like she's prey –

 

Grinding his teeth together, Solas moves back to his desk.

 

“Drink water before you sleep, da'len,” he advises, sitting stiffly before taking his book up once again. “Or the morning will be unpleasant.”

 

Dorian lingers after she's gone. “Not a game?” he asks, propping one shoulder against the wall. “I think you've got quite the habit of lying through your teeth when it comes to our lovely Inquisitor.”

 

Solas turns the page, remaining silent.

 

He's still staring blindly through it long after he's alone.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

The Exalted Plains are a torture Solas had not expected. He has no connection to this land but everywhere are half-erased footsteps of his people, the last gasping breath of Elvhen before the spark was lost. The Veil is thin here, weak and damaged by centuries of war and death and hatred, and the spirits of the fallen and lost whisper to him even in wakefulness. It was in this place the People were all but eradicated, and from this place that the Dalish were born, these ignorant children that make a mockery of the wars he's waged and all he's lost.

 

It's by chance they find a Dalish clan wandering the plans, and Solas would prefer to avoid them all together. But Ellana is as a moth to the flame: little time passes before she is settled beside a camp fire speaking in this fractured bastardization of his language. She has obtained a little boy, who is dangling from her shoulders.

 

“Why does your hand glow?” the boy asks in broken elvish, tugging at her fingers. “Does it tickle? I like your hair.” By nightfall he has brought her sweets, a crown of woven flowers, and has attempted to convince his mother to allow him to give Ellana a great bear skin.

 

“Looks as though you'll be a bride before long, da'len,” Keeper Hawen teases. He's a quiet man, watchful. Particularly of Solas; he is not sure if this because his face is free of vallaslin, or for some other reason.

 

“And what a husband I'll have.” She's laughing, has her arms wrapped around the boy's shoulders. He's tiny, fragile as spiderwebs, and it makes Solas' hands shake. He thinks of Arlathan and the life this child might have led, strong and sturdy and well fed; sent to the temples for schooling, weaving magic before he could speak, wearing silks instead of worn cotton.

 

“Excuse me,” he bites off, knowing his voice is too tight and edging on bitter. It feels as though he's drowning under his failures, spine threatening to snap under the weight of his guilt. The child is in her lap, snuggled warm against her breasts, and it is with her mouth pressed to the crown of the boy's dark hair she watches him leave. Somehow this is even worse, makes something hot and cruel try to rip its way through his guts and into the open air. She looks good with a child in her arms (his da'len with a da'len, what a sweet thought), and the longing he experiences is as brutal as the panic that follows it.

 

Everything here is wrong except her, and sometimes he's terrified that if he were to place the balance of the People against the life of one girl, the fragility of her smile would topple any last chance at reclaiming their losses. It's suffocating here, where mortal elves live half-wild and wear the slave markings proudly. His skin is too small, stretched too thin, and he will rip apart before he can obtain some sort of relief.

 

The land here is full of tall rock formations, and Solas finds one that towers high before climbing to the very top. It's not far enough away but it _is_ as far as he'll allow himself to go (leaving Ellana unprotected is an option he has not even considered); and so it is with his hands balled into the fabric of his worn cloak that he sits under the pouring light of the moon. There is no silence, and he's grateful for it. The river babbles over smooth stones; halla bleat and knicker; small animals move through underbrush and high grass; the wolves are hunting, circling, black as shadows and something of a balm. He is of half a mind to shed his skin and joy them, to lose himself in the forest and the hunt and the simplicity, just for a while.

 

But Hawen has come, is climbing the rock face with the ease of a young man despite his white hair and aging knuckles. The only concession to his age is a low groan when he takes to his feet, one hand at the small of his back. This is a hurt that Solas feels, another reminder of all that has been lost.

 

“It is a beautiful night.” Hawen draws close enough that he might reach out and touch Solas, and then sits. His legs hang over the edge, bare toes catching the wind. “I'd hoped we might speak.”

 

Solas says nothing, is too raw to encourage the other man. But Hawen seems to take his silence for acceptance of some kind. “Do you know anything of Ellana of Lavellan?”

 

This quick child is attempting to play the Game with him; he can read it in the whites of the man's eyes and the suppressed crook of his mouth, the slight shift of his breathing and even the way in which he sets his shoulders. If life were as simple as he wishes it were in his old age (and how very old he is, now, ancient and so _fucking tired_ ), he could bash Hawen right off the stony hill and enjoy the wet _splat_ he would make on the rocks.

 

“We have traveled and worked together for a few months now.” Calm, measured words; even, moderate tone. It is so easy to fool those who don't know how to look. “We have shared many things in that time.”

 

“Of course, of course... then you know why she was at the shem's Conclave?”

 

 _Flat eared apostate,_ Solas reminds himself; instead of playing coy, of dancing around the question, he nods sagely. “She was spying for her clan; her Keeper was wise to see that the Conclave would affect even the Dalish with it's politics.”

 

“Without the magic in your Inquisitor's palm, it would be safe to assume that the disaster of the shemlen's meeting could foreseeable affect the entire world. It's why we need the Inquisitor, desperately so... but I wonder at how unfortunate it is that _she_ is the one to bear this power.” Hawen is far from the kindly grandfather teasing Ellana about a little boy's infatuation with her; now he is a long, sly side-glance and bright eyes.

 

Solas can't keep his fingers from twitching, aching to form a fist and find flesh. Much of his longing for physical violence has passed with the ages, but here is a moment where he would gladly beat answers from this pretender's mouth. Instead he wears a politely troubled mask, head tipping in a careful imitation of attentiveness. “I'm afraid I don't understand,” he says, playing at bemusement.

 

Hawen lifts a hand, makes a motion towards his face. “It's clear you're no Dalish, so you would not know, but our Clans stay in contact. Gossip is inevitable in a community such as ours; luckily our Clan holds ties to Lavellan through recent marriages, and the truth of the matter was provided to me by Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel. I thought it odd she would send her First to the epicenter of human religion – it's would be dangerous for any elf, but especially a mage, as I'm sure you're aware. Add to the fact she is Dalish... well, it did not add up. After the explosion that created the Breach, rumors flew that a girl of Lavellan was named Herald of Andraste. Some said it was our gods that put her there, a blessing, and others claimed it was Fen'harel, hoping to entice more discord between the People and the shems; more claimed she'd been sent to the Conclave in punishment for disobeying her Keeper. But what crime could have been so great that she would be sent halfway across Thedas as a spy, without having the training to perform such an act? The danger of the situation was great, I think you understand this, but for a _First_ to be sent...? It should have been a hunter. A First is meant to guide, lead, and keep the history. They're trained to birth babes, heal wounds, keep the peace... she would have no idea how to go about as a spy among the humans. I knew whatever had occurred, it was serious.”

 

In all honesty, it is only now that he realizes the oddity of a First being sent to perform such a task. There's a dangerous gnawing in his gut, a dull ache in his bones that speaks of a fearful anger so terrible that he could fly into his second form without warning if he does not keep a hard leash on his temper.

 

“I had not considered these things,” Solas admits, pausing to rub his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “But I see why you would have questions.” _He_ has questions now, questions that are slick and insidious as the slow poison on a nocked arrow. Never does his faith in Ellana waver – there is a kindness in her that he has not seen in... _has_ he ever met another as she is? To degrees, but so wholly, so completely _good?_

 

No, he finds himself admitting, and in his teeth feel awkward and too sharp in his mouth. Hawen had best be careful here.

 

“After being made First, it was made clear to Ellana that her life would be tending to the needs of Clan before her own. Especially when _she_ became Keeper. In this, she was matched with Tav'la Istimaethoriel, Deshanna's twin.”

 

“Matched?” Solas asks, slowly. There's a hard, cold knot in his stomach. _Tav'la_ – this is a name he knows, recalls it leaving her lips. _Because Tav'la said sometimes women lie about it,_ Ellana had tried to explain, confusion writ clear across her expressive face.

 

“Sometimes we Keepers have to step in. Children are important, more important than anything else; without them, the People die. So we make matches, strong blood lines for strong babies.”

 

Faintly, as though the words come from someone else, Solas hears himself speak. “You breed your people?” It feels as though he's taken a blow to the chest and cannot take in enough air. “You tried to breed _her?_ ”

 

Hawen is frowning, and the expression he wears is one that says he feels Solas is little more than an ignorant flat ear, unworthy of consideration. If not for his ties to the Inquisitor, his hopes of gaining _something_ in all this, the Keeper would not deign to recognize Solas' existence; and what a lovely piece of irony _that_ is. “It is imperative we bring forth new generations. So yes, we match those who are well-suited; later, after a child has been obtained, they can move on to a love match, if they'd like.”

 

Hot fury rolls through Solas. That Hawen is allowed to continue speaking is only due to the fact he is struggling to contain the rage boiling under his skin, screaming for release in the form of raw magic and violence.

 

“Deshanna discovered that Ellana was partaking of the mother's bitter – a tea to keep seed from growing after it's taken root.” Hawen turns, leans too close to Solas. His eyes are bright and earnest. “Don't you see? If she'll kill off her own _babe,_ with this sort of power –”

 

There's a blur of motion, of muscles bunching and releasing and a snarl settling low in the back of his throat. In one hand he holds Hawen's neck, so very _fragile;_ the man dangles over the edge of the low cliff, hands tight on Solas' wrist. Legs flail in the empty air, the fabric of his robes snapping as the wind picks up. Solas takes a step forward and then half another, until the toes of one foot curl over the edge of this little cliff. (When had he stood? It's been ages since he's lost his temper so thoroughly that black spots ate holes into his memory.)

 

“I do not know what you thought to gain from this... _conversation,_ nor do I care.” Hawen chokes under Solas' fingers, attempting to speak. His grip tightens, cutting off the rough gurgle. Wide eyes roll wildly, blunt nails scraping uselessly at Solas' skin. He bares his teeth; not even an approximation of smile, but a clear threat. “That woman is better a person than you could ever hope to be a thousand lifetimes. It is your _idiocy_ that drove her to such lengths – lengths any woman would have taken in her position, and rightly so. You _Dalish,_ you small, weeping things pretending at being Elvhen when you live in the dirt and filth, treating your daughters as bitches to be bred, refusing to even teach your children to _read._ You presume to judge her for seeking an escape? You send her to a Conclave where she could end up raped, her throat slit on the roadside by humans that see only another knife ear?”

 

Sucking a deep, rasping breath, Solas attempts to regain some measure of control. It's hard won, harder still to control when logic dictates that he must allow the Dalish to live. Slowly he draws the man back in, allows his feet to scrape the ground before he loosens his grip on the other man's throat – only enough so the pathetic creature can take in a burning, strangled gasp.

 

“Listen to me, _shemlen,_ ” Solas breathes, drawing close. “You will never again speak of the Inquisitor again, unless it is to sing her praises for all that she does. You will tell the other Dalish that she is a wonder, a prism to reflect all goodness in the world; you will worship at her alter as do the humans. And if you do not? If you speak of the tragedies she endured at the hands of _your_ people, if you use those acts to condemn her? Then I will return. Your children are so precious to you, so I will be merciful; the children I will spare. But the women, the men; the young and the old, I will soak the land with their blood, and _you will watch._ The little ones I'll take back to Skyhold, where the Inquisitor will take them under her wing and see them raised with the dignity that _you_ could never afford them.

 

“And what of you, _ha'hren?_ Where will you be when your kin are dead and the children are already forgetting that they were ever a part of your flock? Another clan, perhaps? That I'll leave up to you – but know that you _will_ live. Though you will do so without a tongue to speak of the horrors you brought onto those in your charge.”

 

A small push, and Hawen sprawls across the rocks, wheezing and shaking. “What are you?” he demands, the moonlight catches the fear in his eyes and brightening it.

 

Solas smiles, the Wolf showing in the cracks of his facade. “Dirthara-ma,” is his answer, given as the softest of threats.

 

When Hawen returns to the camp, it is to see Solas sitting with Ellana. Several of the children are piled between them and in their laps. “Let me tell you of Arlathan,” Solas croons, cupping one large hand over the soft hair of a pretty little girl. The Keeper turns a sickly shade of white, throat working hard, but he remains silent.

 

It is a wise choice.

 

 

\----X----

 

 

Rain falls gently over the Exalted Plains, washing away the stink of war and rot. The pattering of raindrops on the canvas of the camp tent is a soothing sound, one that lulls much of the tension from Solas' shoulders and neck. In an Inquisition camp they don't have to take turns keeping watch – this duty falls to the soldiers – and he's looking forward to a night of uninterrupted sleep. Not even Blackwall's frankly outlandish snoring is going to ruin this.

 

He's just begin to settle into his bedroll, head nestled in the worn pillow, when a shriek reverberates through the camp. Moving quickly, heart beginning to race, Solas takes up his staff while lurching upright. His feet tangle in his bedroll, warm fur twisting about his left ankle, and he has to shake free before he can dart to the entrance.

 

“ _Sera!_ ” Ellana is screaming, shrill and outraged. “ _Put your bloody breeches on!_ ”

 

“What's going – _fucking hell, Sera!_ ” Outside the tent, Blackwall sounds positively staggered.

 

“Oh, shut it, Beardy! Like no one here's never seen a bush before!” There's a rather significant pause. “Well, His Elfiness probably ain't, what with it not being in the Fade and all woo-woo magic shite, but everyone else has!”

 

Solas immediately regrets looking outside. Sera stands just outside the tent she and Ellana had claimed for their own, wearing nothing more than her freckles. She's scowling at the camp in general, rainwater weighing down her scruffy hair.

 

Staring quite determinedly at his boots, Blackwall demands, “What're you _doing?”_

 

“Well, I _thought_ I'd be a good friend and let our fearless leader know that girls can get theirs, too – but then I thought, well, how'm I supposed to explain it? 'Flick flick flick, twist,' – it don't make no sense! So I thought I'd _show_ her – friendly sort of wank, I suppose – and she screamed like she'd never seen my tits before and pushed me outside!” Folding her arms across her chest, Sera scowls. “Dorian's right, someone fucked her up bad. S'only right we try to help!”

 

Ellana marches out of the tent, arms full of her bedroll and the heavy fur she sleeps under. “Blackwall, you're sleeping with Sera!”

 

“ _What?_ ” the human croaks.

 

Solas receives an elbow in the ribs when he doesn't move out of the Inquisitor's way quickly enough. Hastily stepping back, he watches as she tosses her bedding in a messy pile, before pointing at the rolls already laid out. “Which one is yours?”

 

With an uplifted eyebrow and a nod, Solas indicates the one on the right. Stooping, Ellana scoops up Blackwall's, tucking it all into a messy ball, before marching back out. “Here,” she announces, apparently shoving it in his arms. “I'm sleeping with Solas.”

 

“Pffft, that old egg wishes –”

 

“ _Enough,_ Sera.” Ellana's voice cracks like a whip, trembling with a thin line of anger. “I've had _enough._ Not another word.”

 

Appearing properly cowed, dripping cold rainwater and blinking big eyes, Sera drops her arms. “I – I wasn't trying to –”

 

Ellana holds up a hand. “I know, Sera. But I'm _sick_ of everyone trying to – to fix me! I'm not _broken,_ even if – if –” Rubbing her eyes, she cuts off. “I need sleep. I can't deal with this... this _shit_.” Turning on her heel, she crosses the short distance to the tent.

 

Once inside, she simply stands, dripping a small puddle on the canvas floor. Much to Solas' horror, she sniffs, pressing a hand over her mouth as though to muffle a sob. For a moment he watches, stricken as her shoulders begin to tremble. He wants to reach out, curl a hand around the back of her neck and wrap an arm around her waist, pull her against him and hide her face against his chest. He wants to kiss her wet hair, her soft cheek, whisper _it's okay_ and _I'm here,_ but it's wrong (wrong wrong wrong, and he has to remain strong) to even _want_ these things.

 

Instead he quietly goes to his pack, pulling out a spare undershirt and the worn cloth he keeps for drying after bathing. He offers her these things without words, and his heart feels as though it's being held in a fist when she looks at him as though he's given her jewels. “Thank you,” she says, gratefulness warming her words and brightening her eyes.

 

Unable to speak for fear of what he may say ( _I would give you the stars for your hair and the moon for your throat; I would kneel at your feet, a god before true divinity, and none of these things would be enough; don't thank for me trifles, ma vhenan'ara_ ), Solas simply nods and turns away. Try as he might, he can hear the soft sounds as she removes her wet clothing, the _plop_ it makes on the canvas and the rustle of dry fabric over her skin. Centuries upon centuries of meditation keep his breathing even, his hands steady as he kneels and neatly spreads out her bedroll, shaking out the heavy fur of her blanket before turning it back invitingly.

 

He's careful to keep his gaze adverted, as though there's nothing remarkable about the situation. If it were any other night spent sharing a tent, it wouldn't be; this isn't the first time and he's sure it won't be the last. But never before has she cried, or stripped naked, or covered herself in his clothing. Desperate for a distraction from _that_ particular line of thought ( _she's going to smell like me tomorrow,_ he thinks, and nearly brings blood he bites his tongue with such force), he begins recounting the family lines of long dead Elvhen noble houses. It's an old trick from his youth, now to keep him from pressing his face into her stomach and swearing any vow she'd like so long as she'd touch him.

 

Solas returns to his bedroll. He'd very much like to move it as far away from the Inquisitor's as possible, but he doesn't want to risk upsetting her already fragile feelings by doing so. She wouldn't understand that it was not a slight towards her, but an attempt to keep his own fraying control. He assumes an often used, comfortable position; one hand under his head, the other draped carelessly across his bare stomach, and simply breathes.

 

Soon enough, she's curled up under the bear fur, close enough to touch. The fingers on his stomach twitch, fighting against the urge to cross the space.

 

A harried sigh escapes her. Tentatively she asks, “Solas?”

 

“Yes, da'len?” He had hoped to put distance between them, but there's a heat to the endearment he can't suppress. It is the night, the rain, the thunder in the distance; it is the scent of her, damp and chilled and sinking into _his clothes_ on _her body;_ most importantly it is the simple fact that he desires her with a desperation that he cannot recall ever experiencing in the many years that stand behind him.

 

Ellana is quiet a moment, and from the corner of his eye he can see her hand in the space between them. The light from the campfire outside sinks through the tent walls, soft and tinged with gold, and there are shadows on her knuckles and under her eyes. When she finally speaks, it is thinly; her fingers pluck at the edge of his bedroll. “Do you... do you think I really _could_ be broken?”

 

His head drops to the side, and Solas can _feel_ his eyes widening to an almost impossible size. “What?” he demands, too loudly. Of all the – how could she even _begin_ –

 

“It's just – it's one thing if Dorian is being dramatic and overwrought, he's very _good_ at that; and Bull likes to tell his 'fucking his way through Thedas' stories, and I'm really quite sure that man is depraved beyond any redemption. I mean _really,_ who even _thinks_ about using vegetables for that sort of thing?” Ellana huffs, clearly outraged on the behalf of abused foodstuffs everywhere. “And Sera, well, she's got her own way of going about things. But – but _Cassandra_ –” Groaning, she turns her face into her pillow.

 

“Cassandra...?” he prompts, and quite against his better judgment, Solas finds himself turning towards her. He catches her hand with his own, despairs at his weakness at the catch in his heart's beat when threads her fingers through his and clings.

 

“It was _awful,_ ” she admits, and even such low light he can see her cheeks and line of her neck beginning to color with a blush. “She was even more uncomfortable than I was – can you imagine how terrible it was for her, our stalwart Seeker sitting down the Dalish heathen and discussing _sex?_ Then she broke out these books – oh, Creators, these _books,_ ha'haren, they're – they're _terrible_ – heaving bosoms and swooning and fleshy man swords. _Ugh._ But... but if even _Cassandra_ is saying... I mean, she wouldn't lie about it. And... and so what if I'm broken? What if I just don't work the same way? Krem and I talked about it, that maybe, maybe like how he was born in the wrong body, maybe I was born without the... the whatever it is that makes people like sex.”

 

Solas takes the time to weigh his words. “It's true that some people simply have no interest in sex, da'len, but that in no way makes them 'broken.' It is the same as my dislike for tea, and your love for the infernal stuff.” She gives him a laugh, and he can't help but reach out with his free hand, cupping the line of her jaw in his palm. “If you have no interest in or take no enjoyment, then it is simply something you refrain from; if our companions can't understand, then we will simply make it clear that it's not a topic that's open for discussion.”

 

 _Stop now,_ his mind urges. _Don't be selfish enough to break this girl to satisfy your own desires._

 

But his heart – traitorous thing that it is – pleads, _I've waited lifetimes for her. Don't I deserve this one happiness?After all I've lost, all I've sacrificed... can't I have_ _**her?** _

 

“And yet I believe that is not true for you.” His fingers stretch out, part to make room for her ear before sinking into her hair.

 

“No?” she just barely breathes, the hand holding his squeezing compulsively.

 

“No.” It's so easy to roll up, to balance on his forearm and side, to not quite hover just over her smaller body. Her breathing becomes shallower, quicker; his eyes fall to her neck, where he can _feel_ the pulse of her lifeblood under thin skin. “I think, da'len, that if you took a proper lover, your experience would be much different than whatever came before.”

 

“A... proper lover?” her voice is faint, unsteady.

 

“Oh, yes. Someone to take his time, who cares; someone to search your body and find each spot that makes you sigh, and moan, and plead.” Removing his his hand from her hair, Solas finds the edge of the bear skin and pulls it aside. She's lovely in the night shadows, his tunic too large for her small frame, falling off her sloped shoulders. Now is a moment where his breath catches hard in his lungs, and his chest aches from the magnitude of his awe and wanting.

 

Carefully he lowers himself, presses against her until she rolls fully onto her back. She's soft under him, and so slight. “Ellana.” The quirk of her lips is shy, but also so _hopeful_ that it feels as though she's got a fist wrapped around his heart. It takes a few tries to capture enough air to speak. “Do you trust me?”

 

She blinks, clearly startled. “Of course I do.”

 

He kisses her forehead; once, twice, thrice, all of them dry, fleeting touches. The tender place beside her eye is next, and then the thin skin under it. He runs his lips along the bridge of her nose and sighs over her mouth, grinning like a boy when she jolts and lifts her chin towards him. Now he kisses both corners of that mouth, faint and tender.

 

“If you're uncomfortable, you must tell me, da'len.” His thumb rubs a smooth line down her throat, the length of which is so distracting that he very nearly forgets what he's saying. “If you don't like something, or you're scared, or it hurts; whatever it is, you can tell me.”

 

A line appears between her eyes, mouth drawing down on the edges. Under him she squirms, an uncomfortable movement. “What is it?” he urges, lifting a small amount away from her.

 

She's quick to reach out, curling her arm over his ribs and back in attempt to pull him back. “I don't want to make –” she stops herself from finishing the thought, turning her head away. “You won't... be angry?”

 

“Look at me. Ellana, please.” Releasing her hand, he takes her chin between thumb and forefinger in an effort to get her to look at him. She does so after a moment of reluctance, and the worry in her eyes breaks him more thoroughly than any blade ever could. “Ma vhenan, I swear to you on the blood of the People, I will never become angry with you because of this. _Never._ In this, you have nothing to fear from me. All I want is your pleasure. Do you believe me?”

 

He's startled when a fat tear rolls from her eye, disappearing into her hair. Her mouth opens but no words come out. Solas is tensed, ready to roll always and curse himself for an opportunistic old fool, when she lurches into the little space between them to press their mouths together. It's a clumsy thing; unpracticed, graceless, and utterly devastating. His groan is more animal than man, and he sinks against her with a desperation that only one who has been without affection for millenia can achieve. He's kissing her as though stopping will kill him, as though she's his last chance at happiness, and maybe (he knows) she is.

 

It's wrong, it's wrong, it's wrong – but no, it's _right,_ more right than anything he's found in three thousand years, since the last time he stood in Arlathan and felt the pulse and pull of the People around him. He kisses her until she moans, a small sound that seems as baffled by her pleasure as it is born _of_ pleasure. He kisses her until she curls her hands over his shoulders, clinging. He kisses her until she sighs this new name for this new world – _Solas,_ whispered against his bottom lip – and he then licks his way into her mouth. Under him she's hot with shock, whimpering, and he's already drunk on the taste of her sliding across his palate.

 

The depths of his desire is startling, nearly frightening when faced with it. It feels as though even his soul is trembling with the need to let go (wash over her, _into_ her; make his da'len sigh, and scream, and dig her short nails into his back and pray for his mercy), to fall upon her like a winter starved wolf. Instead he finds strength enough to pull back, to let her take in a gasping breath. Not far, no, not far; he tastes the tender flesh under her jaw and the place where her throat begins. He sets his teeth along the ridge of her jugular vein, and then fists a hand into the bed roll beside her head when the action makes lust spike through him with such force that he becomes lightheaded.

 

 _Calm,_ he urges, _be slow, be gentle. Think._

 

Outside, the storm has drawn closer, is beginning to break over head. Thunder rumbles; beyond the tent, Solas can hear one of the soldiers muttering about the blasted awful weather and how much she'd like to be indoors. Sera and Blackwall are bickering across camp, their voices if not their words floating across the space. Reality is cruel, reminding him them that they are surrounded by listening ears and thin canvas instead of stone walls. This is not the way he wants her, not when _this_ is so fragile and she is so unsure.

 

Lifting his head, Solas exhales in a hot rush. The words follow, swelling and rushing a strong river current, and he has no way to stem the tide. “I want to _worship_ you,” he admits, watching the way her teeth sink into her lower lip, the way her shoulders press against the bedroll in a restless, half-lived motion. “I want to take you apart, da'len, and show you how _good_ it can be. How good you can feel – how good _I_ can make you feel. I want to drink your pleasure, lick the sweat from the small of your back, fill you up and, Void take me, I want to get so deep inside you that I leave a part of myself behind.”

 

Ellana quivers, fingertips pressing hard against the bunching muscles under his skin. “I can't give you that here,” he explains, frustration curling his mouth into something almost feral.

 

“Why?” Lightning flashes, and for a moment she is made of moonshine and quicksilver. Her eyes are wide and dark, the laces between her breasts loose, and there is so much _skin_ to be had there. “I – Solas, I _want_ –” He can't hear this, can't hear (his) Ellana ask him for his touch, his mouth, to guide her pleasure until she is on the verge of madness from it. Because he does not have the fortitude to deny her, not now and maybe not ever, and, oh, this is a _mistake._ So he slants his mouth over hers, draws her words onto his tongue until she forgets them in favor of a moan of such raw hunger that his thin resolve becomes laced with fissures.

 

Thunder claps, a crash so close that across camp Sera is shouting, “ _Shut it, you raging cunt!_ ” Solas pushes up the fabric on Ellana's thighs, runs his hand up and finds flesh, flesh, more flesh. She'd shed her smalls for sleep and he can't breathe; his skin is burning, too small, and there is fine, downy hair under the pads of his fingers.

 

She whimpers, “Ha'haren,” and loops an arm around his neck, trying to bring him closer. The rain begins to fall louder and harder, so heavy it sounds as fat little pebbles against the treated canvas protecting them. His lips drag down, following some invisible line from jaw, to neck, to shoulder. His fingers twitch, slide down, press and find such a welling of moisture that he's baring his teeth and pulling back. There's no time for Ellana to scramble to keep a grip on him, or even to worry that she's done something wrong: straddling her legs, Solas begins a hasty removal of his tunic from her body.

 

He _needs_ to hold her thighs apart with his shoulders, to brace a hand on her soft belly and bury his face in the center of her. It a physical thing, this want, this need to drink and drink and drink, to give until she's wailing and wet and his, all his. But he knows, he _knows_ with a hard certain that if he tastes now he will not stop. Not when the soldiers hear the Inquisitor begging a ragged elven apostate “Yes, more, please; Solas, Solas, _Solas._ ” Not when she came, and his jaw was slick with her pleasure. Not when she was screaming because he's been using the same soft, light strokes against her clit for an hour, or two, or maybe three, and she's convinced that any more will _kill_ her.

 

Not when the sun rose – though by dawn he'd be inside her, cradling the back of her head in one hand and unable to hold back laughter as she begged, “I _can't,_ ha'haren, I can't again,” because he knew she _could_ and _would_ and, “Hush, da'len, ma da'len; I told you I'd take you apart, and I am, I will. We've only just began.”

 

Not when he spent inside her, the first time. No, he'd have to taste the way they mingled, and she would cry, and claw at his scalp, and beg. (How he would make her _beg..._ ) Not the second, or third, or the forth. But after it all he would hold her, yes, would wrap himself around her and hide her from the world, the war, his mistakes, her gods that would tear her apart because she is his heart, walking and breathing and vibrantly alive. She _is_ his heartoutside his body, and in his chest her own is as loud as the thunder.

 

Instead he guides her to roll onto her side, lies behind her and gathers her close. He buries his face in her hair, inhales deep, groans, tightens his grip and sees lights behind his eyes. How long has he waited? Forever. He's waited forever for this mortal girl, this child that has no comprehension of the monster whose hands she's clinging to. She's here now but it's the wrong time, the wrong place and he will lose her. Solas knows this in his blood and bones, because he ruins everything, _breaks_ everything.

 

Even his own heart... _especially_ his heart.

 

Untangling his hand from the tight grip Ellana has taken on it, he touches her. Gently, carefully, as though she's tissue paper that he's afraid to tear. It makes her whine, shift her hips, curl her toes. Solas is grateful she can't see him, can't see the tears glossing his eyes or the tense curl of his mouth as he clings to some measure of discipline.

 

The undersides of her breasts are tender, make her shiver and murmur wordlessly. There are spots on her ribs that make her breath suck in between her teeth, sharp and loud, and then she's trying to squirm away. The laughter in her throat is startled, warm; he kisses the back of her neck, chuckles with her, knows he will wrap the sound of those giggles in silk and keep them tucked safely away in his memory for eons to come. Running his palms over the curve of her hips makes her spine straighten and her thighs press together. His thumb in the dip of her navel, fingers fanning low, has her hand gripping his wrist, nervous, frightened, excited.

 

So he cups her chin, pulls her face towards and leans over his shoulder. He kisses her until she releases his wrist, until she sighs peppers him with soft, sweet pecks. “It's okay now,” she announces, and he can feel her cheek warm in a blush. “If you – I mean, if that –”

 

Propping his chin on her shoulder, Solas watches her expression as he slides his hand between her thighs. She's _blazing,_ soft and wet and heavenly. He wants he wants he _fucking_ _**wants** _ – but he holds her, gently, and does nothing more than watch.

 

At first, she's simply tense, muscles jumping in aborted motions. Then her breathing picks up, until Ellana is panting, hot puffs of air through her open mouth as her brow furrows. Lightning so bright it's blinding strikes, and for a moment he's blinking away spots; it's now she wriggles, whines, reaches back to dig her nails into his hip.

 

“Please,” she breathes, and there's a ragged thread that says, _I don't know what I want but I'm begging you to give it to me._ And again, “ _Please._ ”

 

“Ma vhenan'ara,” he croons, free hand rubbing soothing circles on her stomach. “Do you know how good you feel? Like liquid silk on my fingers, and so warm. I've wanted to be here, right between these legs, since the first time we fought together. You were so fierce, so determined to _help,_ to set things right, even before the anchor had bonded and you were near to being consumed by it. I watched you master the rifts, master the mark, master your captor into trusting you, and do you know what I thought? How very much I would like to master _you,_ to pull you apart and wrap you around myself. Lust, da'len, I've lusted from nearly the first.”

 

The cry that leaves Ellana's throat is strained, far more of a whisper than a roar. It's a beautiful sound, one he's wanted to wring out of her pretty mouth since she squared her jaw and began hurling fire at a Pride demon. It makes his cock throb in time with heart's beat, and he can no more stop himself from thrusting against her backside than he can stop breathing. There's a voice of reason, dim but frantic, telling him to _stop stop stop; she's so young, so inexperienced, don't frighten her._ But she's always surprising him, his da'len, and without warning she is pressing back. Hesitant, yes, but her bottom lip is caught between her teeth and she's looking back at him with wide eyes.

 

Slow is no longer a viable option, because Solas can hear nothing past her ragged breathing and see nothing beyond her sweat damp skin in the dim light. The world has shrunk down to Ellana; her scent, her touch, her slick pooling on his calloused fingers. His thumb finds her clit, but his other hand is between them, fighting the ties of his breeches. Behind her he's pushing the fabric down, squirming until it's low on his hips and his cock is free. The air is cool and she is so warm, and Solas finds his teeth against her shoulder when he pushes between her closed thighs.

 

“Creators – _Solas_ –” Choking on a shallow breath, Ellana lurches. He follows, pulls her back, sees spots in his vision because she's beyond slick and surrounding him – not the way he wants, but it's still _so good,_ and her neck is straining as she tosses her head against his shoulder and cries out.

 

Through the heavy rain, the blood in his ears, his heavy breaths, her sounds, Solas hears a voice from beyond the tent. “Did you hear...?”

 

“They heard you,” he rasps, holding her hip hard enough to leave bruises and finally thrusting. Her folds open around him, holding, and Ellana moans loudly enough that he has no doubt the soldiers heard it as well. Folding a hand over her mouth in an attempt to keep her quiet, he fucks against her. Each thrust as her whimpering, lips open against his palm as her clit rides the ridge of his erection.

 

“When we return to Skyhold, I'm going to have you, vhenan.” He can feel her moan more than hear it, is entranced by the ripple of muscles under smooth skin as she shudders. “I am going to take you into your high tower and ward the doors, and spread you out and touch you everywhere, _everywhere,_ Ellana. I'm going to taste the backs of your knees, the skin between your fingers, the tops of your toes; and your cunt, _yes,_ I'm going to have your thighs on either side of my head and I am going to _devour_ you. Hours, vhenan'ara, for longer than you can imagine lasting. You'll come again, and again, and again; until each one is fight, and I'll be drowning in your wet, and you'll be fucking delirious.”

 

She's crying, legs pulling up; her thighs press tighter together and he's growling, forehead against the sharp ridge of her shoulder blade as she curls in on herself. She's shivering, quick and hard, and please, please let her be close because he can't stop the orgasm that is close to sweeping over him like a tsunami wave.

 

More words from his mouth, more promises and praise, but Solas doesn't know what he's saying. All he knows is the burn, hot and wild, and how she's reaching back, desperately gripping the back of his skull as a high keen vibrates out of her. Despite his hand over her mouth, Ellana comes loudly; “ _Solas!_ ” wailed against his palm like a prayer.

 

“You're mine,” he pants, spine stretching as his release bursts over him. “Mine, mine, mine; and I'm yours, Ellana, yours – _ma vhenan, fuck, fuck, fuck_ –” Later he will be grateful that these words come in Elvhen, so ancient that she cannot understand. It doesn't erase them, however, and long after she's asleep the Dread Wolf is awake, weaving in a new addition to his plans.

 

 

 


End file.
